


for sins and false alarms

by jediseagull



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: F/M, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Loyalty, M/M, Minor Canonical Character(s), Post-KoA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:38:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5471621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jediseagull/pseuds/jediseagull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A single rumor could move mountains, or topple thrones. Sejanus had been very good at this game, but Hilarion knew better than to think it one of his own strengths. Then again, political acuity had gotten Sejanus imprisoned, his brother exiled, and his house doomed to crumble away with no son to inherit it, and Hilarion, for all his faults, would not make the same mistake twice.</p><p>But he could not imagine standing before their cranky, sleep-rumpled king and telling Attolis that he ought to be careful of a mere rumor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for sins and false alarms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lesserstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesserstorm/gifts).



> Massive thanks to multiple rounds of wonderful betas - Isis, sigaloenta, shiibaru, plalligator, and prinzenhasserin - for all of their help throughout the writing process, and to the awesome friends in this fandom who are always willing to shriek excitedly about it. 
> 
> Happy Yuletide to Lesserstorm! Your prompt was a lot of fun to explore, and I hope you like it <3 
> 
> Title from "The Riddle" by Nik Kershaw.
> 
> Spoilery warnings at the end.

It began as a whisper slipping through the cracks of polite conversation, a secret in the corners where all other indiscretions went to hide. That was, after all, the nature of courts in general, and of this court in particular.

Sejanus had been very good at this game, but Hilarion knew better than to think it one of his own strengths. He and Philologos had found themselves at the forefront of the king’s attendants through age and status – and, in Philologos’ case, acerbic wit – not political acuity.

Then again, political acuity had gotten Sejanus imprisoned, his brother exiled, and his house doomed to crumble away with no son to inherit it, and Hilarion, for all his faults, would not make the same mistake twice.

The rumor was this: the gods were displeased. Attolis was a heretic and the queen, depending on who you asked, was either unable to countermand him or already corrupted by his heathen ways.

Frankly, if Attolia was a country scorned the gods had a very odd way of showing it. No king could have singlehandedly ruined Erondites, nor queen have sent the Mede scurrying, unless the gods had willed it so.

And yet.

A single rumor could move mountains, or topple thrones. It was certainly indisputable that upon his ascension, the high priest had requested to meet with the king, and been denied. Unwise, perhaps – but then, there was painfully little Hilarion could do about it.

Under normal circumstances, being chosen to be a royal attendant was both a great honor and a great responsibility. The attendants were meant to be the ruler’s closest companions, his valets and confidantes all in one. They, more than any other courtier, ought to have had the king’s ear, to offer him advice and encouragement in turn.

But the mere idea of Attolis confiding in them was ludicrous. Even more impossible was the notion that Hilarion – that any of them – had the right to stand before their cranky, sleep-rumpled king and tell Attolis that he ought to be careful.  

“You know they’re saying that you’ve offended the gods.” 

At least there was Costis. 

The king tutted and stuck both arms out so the attendants could drape him in a cotton overrobe. “If I wanted to be nagged about my manners at a disgustingly early hour, I’d have called for Phresine.”

“My King,” Costis said, both a plea and a reprimand.

It was not particularly seemly for a nobleman to be grateful for a mere soldier, but at this point Hilarion had learned to pick his battles. Since the day he’d thrown his lot in with the king, Costis had become a valuable ally.

Attolis heaved a huge, put-upon sigh. “Yes, I know what they’re saying. I have ears. But since the gods have made it quite apparent that I will know if I’ve offended them – probably as I’m plummeting to my doom – I will reserve my concern until further notice.” 

The attendants were not going to interrupt what was by now as much a part of the morning routine as getting the king washed and dressed, but for the briefest of instants, the smooth flow of movement faltered. Hilarion glanced at Philologos, who hitched his shoulders in a minute shrug.

So he didn’t understand either. That was less than reassuring.

“They’re not talking about _your_ gods,” Costis said. If he hadn’t been so well-trained, he’d have been tearing his hair out in exasperation. As it was, his face was creased with dismay, but Attolis just rolled his eyes. The king didn’t believe in making things easy for anybody, even his friends.

“If someone else’s gods would like to stick their noses into my life, they’ll have to get in line.”

“Is that what you’re going to tell the court?”

“I am not going to tell the court a damned thing,” Attolis said. “I’m going to have breakfast, and let my wife deal with the court.”

Breakfast was as good an excuse as any. Hilarion took his cue and slipped out the door, Philologos standing to follow him as he left. The younger man waited until they had left the wing of the palace that contained the royal apartments before he asked tentatively, “You think he believes it? That the gods are angry?”

Hilarion blinked, thrown. “The king, you mean?” he asked, and Philologos shook his head, mouth pinched tight.

“Costis. He sounded worried, and he knows what the king is capable of.”

“I –“ Hilarion started, and then paused, considering. With one of the others, he might have denied it, but he admired Philologos a great deal. Hilarion didn't wish to lie to him. “I think he believes that the court believes it, which is enough to concern him.”

“And you?” Philologos said.

“I am always concerned about the king,” Hilarion said dryly. “Or perhaps it would be better to say that I am always concerned _by_ the king,” he added, and was gratified by the sound of Philologos’s quiet laughter.

******

Through mutual unspoken agreement, they did not bring up the conversation when they returned, but that did not stop the other attendants from jumping on the topic as soon as Attolis was ensconced with his meal. Costis had joined him, but the attendants were left to wait in the empty guardroom. 

“I heard the well at the old temple drew water that tasted of blood,” Dionis fretted, pacing back and forth in front of the low benches that edged the walls.

“And I heard Cleon was a gentleman, but we all know what a falsehood that is,” Philologos said.

“With enough wine, any nonsense might be passed off as truth.”

“I will have you know that I am the very picture of nobility towards all the young women of my acquaintance,” Cleon said, drawing snickers of amusement from the other attendants. The entire court knew of his reputation as a notorious flirt. 

“But the king said he would know if he’d offended the gods. What do you think he meant?” Verix asked.

Lamion said, “Apparently he joins our little Philologos in being able to know when the gods are unhappy and when they’ve turned water to blood just for the fun of it.” 

“No,” Sotis corrected, fast enough to stop Philologos’s annoyed retort. “It’s because he was the Thief.” His family’s estate, Hilarion remembered, bordered the foothills of Eddis. He probably grew up hearing stories about the mountain court.

“Meaning?”

“Tradition says that the Thief of Eddis cannot fall unless his god drops him.” 

They all fell silent as they thought about that for a minute. Darkly, Hilarion wondered whether Eddisian tradition said anything about the gods’ feelings on amputation.

“Except,” Pelles said slowly, “We are not in Eddis, we are in Attolia, and he is no longer the Thief.”

“Aren’t I?”

Pelles flinched. “Your Majesty! I only meant –”

“I know what you meant, Pelles,” the king said. “As the court has apparently forgotten about my unsavory past, do you think I may brave the throne room, or am I to be locked away in meetings all day?”

“The queen has requested you join her in receiving petitioners this morning,” Cleon said meekly.

“As my wife commands, then,” the king said without a hint of irony, and swept out of the chamber as they all scrambled to follow.

******

They should have known it was too easy. 

Once seated in the throne room the king seemed determined to reach new heights of insolence. He made a series of increasingly insipid comments about the weather, moaned about being hungry in spite of having just eaten, and picked at the cushion of his throne with his hook until the queen very calmly put her fingers on his sleeve and said, quiet enough that Hilarion had to strain to hear it, “Stop, or you will lose the whole arm.”

The king laughed and pecked her cheek, but he finally settled, and the whole court – Hilarion included – breathed a sigh of relief. After nearly an hour the room was stiflingly hot. Even the queen’s hair had begun to curl slightly underneath the gold band of her circlet, and the packed audience was in far worse of a state. All anyone wanted was to get through the last petitioners and leave with no more ridiculous delays –

Someone screamed. The courtiers, who had been restless and disinterested, snapped to attention to stare in horror at the king.

No, Hilarion realized. _Above_ the king.

The tapestry hanging over the twin thrones was bleeding.

For a moment, he felt as though time had frozen. Beside him, Philologos said, low and fervent, “Gods help us.”

As though his words were a signal, the room descended into chaos as people began to shove their way towards the doors, their terrified voices rising like a wave. Underneath the furor Hilarion imagined he could hear the steady _drip, drip, drip_ of red liquid onto the floor.  
  
The queen stood, a column of crimson and gold. In a voice that rang like a sword unsheathed, she said, “Enough.”

“My Queen,” Teleus said, and Attolia shook off his hand to survey the panicking crowd with clear eyes.

“ _Enough_ ,” she said again, and, helpless at her command, the people subsided. “The high priest will see this. When he has reached a conclusion, we will address what needs to be done. This kingdom honors the gods.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” the king added brightly. The muttering swelled anew. 

Attolia ignored him and said, no less audible, “Captain, have your men escort everyone out. _Quietly_.”

The king looked tolerantly amused as the guards cleared the room, leaving only the monarchs and their attendants behind. “I suppose that was meant for me.”

“Oh, no,” Attolia said. “Don’t think I have forgotten about you. Erondites was a necessity, but if you are going to insist on picking fights, you will do so without causing unnecessary disruptions.”

“My dear, I have no idea what you mean,” the king said. “I’ve never picked a fight in my life.”

Attolia stood. Her raised eyebrow was exquisitely judgmental as she regarded the king, and when she turned it on the attendants the gory tapestry suddenly seemed insignificant.

The gods were the gods, but this was his queen.

“My husband has an appointment with the high priest,” she said coolly. “See that he keeps it.”

And she left without another word. 

Her censure could have scorched the earth itself, but the king merely said, surprisingly mild, “Well, I suppose we ought to be going.”

“Your Majesty, won’t you wait for a guard –” Hilarion started.

“The queen has ordered me to go to the temple,” the king said. “Do you want to tell her that you were the reason why I did not?”

“No, but –”

“Then keep up,” the king said.

“He spent three months avoiding the temple, and now he goes as soon as he's asked,” Lamion muttered. “Is he ill?”

Hilarion had a horrible suspicion that the truth was far worse: The king was planning something.

******

The temple to the new gods was much grander than any that had been built before it, but Attolis looked at it as though it were a pigsty, nose wrinkled in distaste. Elaborately painted statues lined the main promenade up to the columned entrance. Hilarion was not particularly religious himself, but he touched a cupped hand to his forehead in respect as they passed, and Pelles, whose father had been high priest there until his passing, did the full gesture of supplication.

The king didn't pause, striding up the stairs and onto the marble floor with the air of a man bracing himself for an unpleasant task.

“Your Majesty,” came the murmurs.

“Where is the high priest?” Attolis said.

“Here, Your Majesty. I am Theophanes.” 

The king squinted through the hazy lamplight at the figure who walked towards them. “The smoke seems rather counterproductive.”

“To what, Your Majesty?”

“I understand you wished to see me,” the king said.

There was a beat of silence. Philologos choked on a horrified laugh. 

The priest’s tone was rife with disapproval. “Indeed. Shall we speak outside, then?” 

In the sunlight, Theophanes was revealed to be a man of about forty, hair turning a refined silver at the temples. He stood several inches taller than the king, but he carried himself with the peculiar hunch of a man who spent all his time bent over books and parchment, and his robes were stained with ink and candle wax.

“I have heard of the gods’ work in the throne room,” he proclaimed. “Their meaning is clear.”

“And I agree completely,” the king said.

“You do?” Theophanes said.

Oh no.

“Oh, yes,” the king said. “That tapestry was horrid. It really did need to go.”

“Your Majesty,” Hilarion said. Maybe the queen would take pity and grant him a quick death when he put his hand over the king’s mouth to shut him up.

Attolis grinned up at the priest, who was turning purple at an alarming rate.

“Please pass on my gratitude to the gods for their suggestion.” 

“ _Your Majesty!_ ”

“The gods will not tolerate such disrespect!” Theophanes said, voice shaking in fury.

The king smiled even wider, baring his teeth. “In my experience, the gods never do.”

Pelles looked like he was going to be sick. Truthfully, Hilarion did not feel much better himself. The problem was not one of ignorance. The problem was that Attolis knew exactly what he wasn’t supposed to be doing, and then he chose to do it anyways, like a cat gleefully knocking over amphoras just to watch them shatter.

Well, Hilarion thought, the amphora was certainly shattered now.

******

Even by the time they saw the king to bed and retired to their own adjacent room several hours later, there was nothing else on their minds. Sotis excused himself, claiming exhaustion, but the rest of them found spaces to perch around the small common area. Though the attendants’ sleeping quarters were partitioned off from their main room with linen curtains, the door that separated them from the royal wardrobes was solid oak. Here, finally, they could speak honestly. 

“I can’t believe he would say that to the priest. It had to have been real,” Pelles said. “You were there, you all saw it.”

“Certainly we saw it,” Dionis said dismissively. “It means nothing if the king doesn’t care and the queen is too weak to make him act.”

Verix started to protest. “The queen –”

“The queen respects the gods,” Lamion drawled. “Which is more than we can say for her husband.”  

Across the table, Philologos rolled his eyes. Hilarion didn’t blame him; Lamion was a social climber of the worst sort, and upon Sejanus’s ousting he had not risen to the prominence he desired. He resented Philologos his status in the same way that Dionis resented Hilarion’s support of the queen, and without Sejanus to lay them all in order, their differences had begun to chafe.

“Does it matter?” Cleon asked philosophically. “We are here to wait upon the king, nothing more. If Attolis offends, it is our job to duck, not throw ourselves upon the pyre for him.”

“Not when we have the queen’s lapdogs to do it for us,” Dionis said.

Hilarion could hold his tongue no longer. “The king has more than earned our respect,” he said coldly. “As has Costis. Do you want to end up like Erondites?” That drew a round of shudders. “Exactly,” he said and glared until the conversation shifted to which eligible daughters were being offered up for marriage this year.

When the discussion about whether the Baron Anacritus’s eldest was really as ugly as rumors claimed was well underway, Hilarion stood, rolling his shoulders, and went to lean against the wall. If dealing with the other attendants was as much like trying to control a group of unruly children as it felt sometimes, he owed his boyhood tutors an apology. 

After a few minutes, Philologos sidled up next to him and said, voice low and frustrated, “Sometimes I feel as though you are the only sensible one of the lot.”

“Kind but untrue. Sotis is no fool.”

“But he is willing to let the rest be foolish,” Philologos bit out, and then put a hand up in self-censure. “I know. I’m being too hard on them.”

“And on yourself,” Hilarion said, fighting back a grin. “You’re quite sensible when you’re not letting Lamion goad you into his silly arguments. I should follow your lead.”

Just as straight-faced, Philologos said, “I never let Lamion goad me into anything.”

“And you never put a snake in the king’s bed, either.”

Philologos groaned. “He is not half as stupid as we once thought, nor so harmless. You’d think they’d remember that.”

“They remember the fear,” Hilarion said, shrugging a little. “And the gods know it’s been a long day. We are none of us at our best.”

“As I told you,” Philologos said around a yawn. “You are the only sensible one of the lot. No doubt a few good nights of sleep and we’ll all be seeing reason once more.” He smiled sleepily up at Hilarion, soft and fond, and Hilarion felt warmth suffuse him.

“I shall not keep you, then,” he said, knowing he was smiling back and unable to do anything about it.

Philologos leaned a little more firmly against his shoulder for a second, then pushed off the wall to bid the others goodnight. As though his departure was a signal, they all trailed off to their own beds not long after.

******

They did not find out whether Philologos was right about the value of a few good nights’ sleep. Two days following the incident in the throne room Lamion woke them all in the small hours of the morning, thrashing and crying in the grip of a nightmare. They shook him, but when he would not stop sobbing, they slapped his face until he gasped and blinked awake. His eyes were wild and terrified, cheeks wet with tears. “We burned,” he whispered. “We burned, and the gods would not save us.”

“It was a dream,” Sotis said kindly. “You’re upset, but it was only a dream.”

“It felt so real.”

“All dreams do,” Philologos said, and if he was not as kind as Sotis he was still gentler than usual. “Rest, and you’ll feel better when you wake again.”

But Lamion was only the first. Pelles screamed his throat raw a few days later and said he had seen a vision of the olive groves coming to life and swallowing the city in their roots. At week’s end Cleon dreamed they drowned in molten gold, choking on rubies with every desperate breath.

As the dreams began to flow like unstoppered wine, they saw themselves dying night after night. The gods did not ever save them.

In the mornings, they took their weary toll of imagined horrors.                                               

“You think someone has been giving us quinalums?” Verix asked finally. They had all been thinking it. But –

“We would know if we were. They’re too bitter to disguise in all but the richest food or drink.” Cleon sighed. “And we’re not taking lethium as the king was.”

“Then it is a sign,” Dionis said miserably. “The gods have forsaken us.”

“Have they forsaken us,” Pelles asked. “Or the king?”

Nobody replied. Hilarion was not sure that he knew himself.

But if the gods had forsaken Attolis, it did not seem to have affected him the same way. He stood tall, while his attendants were left to suffer in silence. Nothing they tried worked. They grew wan and weary, and still the nightmares did not stop.

“Hilarion, I’ve noticed that my attendants haven’t been their usual charming selves recently. Should I be concerned?” 

Although his injuries from the assassins had mostly healed, the king was under strict orders not to strain himself with vigorous exercise. This made him restless, which in turn made him enough of a pest during the physician’s checkup that said doctor had shooed the king outside to take an afternoon walk ‘for the sake of his constitution’.

The king had chosen a long, wandering circuit that took them all the way out to the temples, and he seemed determined to go as slowly as possible. Hilarion had to force himself to remain upright. His head was pounding. Every movement felt as though he were struggling against the weight of his own body. Needless to say, his own constitution did not feel improved.

Now the king wanted to make conversation?

It was an effort to come up with an appropriate response. Eventually he managed, “We are not sleeping well, Your Majesty.”

“Bad dreams?”

Hilarion nodded. He was too tired for courtly delicacy. “Some of us worry it may be an omen.”

“Well, that’s silly,” the king said, as though he were scolding an errant puppy. “I thought I was the one who offended the gods.”

“You did.”

The king turned, Hilarion a beat behind him. Shaking with mingled fury and exhaustion, Pelles said again, “You _did_ offend, and now the gods are punishing us for your irreverence.”

“Pelles,” Sotis said, shocked. They were all staring. 

“Do you disagree with me?” Pelles demanded. “Do any of you truly think otherwise?”

There was a long pause. Hilarion wondered, morbidly, if the king would have them all arrested for treason, or simply ask the Guard to kill them on the spot. He didn’t have Pelles’s conviction of the king’s guilt – but it had been more than a week since the nightmares began. He could not have total faith in the king’s innocence, either.

“I do.”

Philologos’s eyes were almost swallowed in their cavernous sockets. The bags underneath them were the deep purple of a bruise. His glare, however, was as forceful as ever, and as he looked at Hilarion it was colored with stinging disappointment.

“And you have some alternative explanation, then?” Lamion scoffed.

Hilarion knew he did not. They had exhausted every possibility ten times over already trying to find a solution. Philologos still said, “I have more faith in the gods than to think they would punish the wrong people.”

Pelles snapped, “And are we not as guilty for following him –”

“Pelles,” Sotis said with more urgency. “Apologize to His Majesty. _Now_.”

“It’s fine,” the king said. In the shadows of his left sleeve, his fingers curled and straightened restlessly. “You are – you are all – tired. Forget it.”

But Hilarion could not forget. Not then, and not some hours later. Philologos had refused to utter another word to him all day, and in spite of Hilarion’s best efforts he stalked off to the alcove where he slept without a single backwards glance.

******

The following morning felt like a minor miracle. He felt like he could do anything, including earn Philologos’s forgiveness.

“I didn't dream at all last night,” he said in lieu of a greeting at breakfast. It was such a silly thing to be so relieved about, but there he was.

“Nor did I,” said Pelles grudgingly, and the others all murmured that they too had enjoyed dreamless sleep. But as he looked around the room, he noticed one curtain still hanging closed. 

“Philologos…?”

“Probably still asleep,” Sotis said, and though it niggled at him to leave matters the way they were, Hilarion agreed to Sotis’s suggestion that they let their youngest take the rest he needed.

The morning came and went, and Philologos did not emerge. Finally, when it seemed as though he would sleep through the noon meal, Hilarion went to go fetch him.

“Philologos?” Hilarion waited, then tapped again on the wall. When there was no answer, he cautiously stuck his head through the gap in the fabric. 

Philologos was in bed. His face was pale; his chest did not shift the blankets with the easy rhythm of his breathing. 

Hilarion felt his own breath catch and stutter in his chest.

“Physician,” Hilarion said hoarsely, forcing the word out. He dropped to his knees by the side of the bed and shouted, “Somebody get the physician, now!”

He could not bear the idea of touching Philologos, not when the touch might say more than Hilarion wanted to know, but he bowed his own head until it grazed the mattress.

 _Please_ , he prayed, with a depth of feeling he had not known he possessed. _Please_. 

The curtains opened; people flooded in. “He is not dead yet,” the physician said, kneeling beside him and taking Philologos’s pulse with rapid efficiency. “But you need to let me work if you want him to stay that way.”

Silently, Hilarion stood and left.

******

He waited. The world had shifted irrevocably, and yet palace life went about its daily business as though nothing had changed. Hilarion found he could not face it, and some small part of him was grateful that the other attendants did not press him to leave his post staring at Philologos’s chambers.

An hour passed. Then two. Hilarion shut his eyes and began to pray again in an endless litany. _Let me have the chance to tell him. Let me have the chance to ask._

After another hour, the king arrived with his personal physician to relieve the one already working. Without a word, they entered the room and slid the curtains shut again behind them. The attendants who had come with them glanced at each other, but they filed out one by one, leaving Hilarion to his vigil.

It felt as though days had gone by before the linen rustled with movement. Hilarion didn’t look, but he heard boots padding on stone and knew who stood before him.

“Petrus says he will live.”

Hilarion exhaled shakily, one last formless prayer, and then he opened his eyes and said, “Your Majesty.”

Squatting was not particularly kingly, but Attolis had crouched down beside him anyways. “He was poisoned. An overdose of drugs. It should have killed him, but his body’s been building up a tolerance to them.”

The nightmares, Hilarion thought. And the attendants were like oracles at the temple, seeing the gods in all the terrible glory. “Someone _has_ been drugging us,” he said slowly. “It was quinalums after all?”

“It wasn’t quinalums.”

“Your Majesty,” Hilarion said. He felt numb, as though he were seeing things from a great distance. “Philologos nearly died.”

“Yes,” the king said, so low he could barely be heard. “But quinalums cause hallucinations and fits, and Petrus tells me that while in excess they may stop the heart, they do not slow it. It wasn’t quinalums, although –” He broke off. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You thought it was the high priest,” Hilarion realized. “You provoked him, and then you took us by the temple to provoke him further. You used us as bait, and you were _wrong_.”

“I was using myself as bait,” the king said. “I was not expecting Philologos to defend me quite so vehemently.”

“He nearly died!” 

“It was a miscalculation. And for that,” the king said softly, “I am truly sorry.” He stood, rolling his shoulders to resettle his coat. “Hilarion.”

Hilarion raised his head. “Your Majesty.”

Attolis looked back at him, face twisted into something ugly and unrecognizable. “They’ll pay for it.”

It was not for a king to take petty revenge, but Hilarion couldn’t find it in himself to care. He wanted the men who had hurt Philologos to pay.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said.

And Attolis had not always been a king. 

******

Petrus stayed by Philologos’s side until he was awake and talking, and then gave Hilarion strict instructions for his care.

“He is to drink plenty of water, two glasses three times a day at minimum, and as many of his meals as he can stand should be soup. We need to flush his system of all the remaining toxins.”

“Of course,” Hilarion promised.

Philologos looked up at him once Petrus had excused himself. “Well?” he croaked.

“I’m sorry,” Hilarion said. “You were right about the king. You have always been right about him.” 

“Not always,” Philologos said.

“Often enough that we should all know better by now,” Hilarion said, and Philologos laughed. 

The sound was hoarse and scratchy, but Hilarion had never heard anything more wonderful.

Hours later, though, he was beginning to regret his promise to Petrus. Philologos, as it turned out, was a terrible patient. He vigorously protested the liquid diet, and then felt so nauseous he vomited up all of his breakfast and lunch anyways.

“I wouldn’t be sick if you’d give me real food,” he said crankily. “Did you or did you not say that I was always right?”

“Only about the king,” Hilarion reminded him.

“Oh, let the poor boy eat something, I can hear his stomach growling from here,” Cleon called from his neighboring chamber. “No, wait, that’s just his temper.”

“You wouldn’t find it half as funny if you’d been poisoned too,” Philologos grumbled back.

And though they laughed, Hilarion knew it troubled the other attendants as much as it did him. Someone had tried to kill Philologos. That same someone hadn’t just tried to drug all of them – they’d succeeded.

“We _are_ glad you’re not dead,” Pelles said awkwardly when the chuckles subsided.

Philologos nodded, and Hilarion knew he understood what Pelles meant.

“Mostly Hilarion, of course,” Lamion said, slow and drawling. “He would be bereft forever, while the rest of us would miss you and then move on with our lives. It averages out.” 

Philologos went pink. “I suppose I should be flattered,” he said under his breath, and Hilarion grimaced.

“They are joking. Mostly.”

“Are they?”

“I –”

You wanted a chance, he scolded himself. So _take_ _it_.

“Hilarion,” Philologos said, so quiet that the others could not overhear it if they tried. “I would like very much for it not to be a joke.”

Tentatively, Hilarion reached for his hand. It was warm in his own, and Philologos’s fingers trembled slightly as they curled around his palm, gripping tight.

“Neither would I,” he said. “I wanted to tell you –”

If Philologos’s smile was overwhelming, the press of his lips to Hilarion’s own was a lightning strike, sweet and devastating. At that moment, nothing else mattered – not even the gods themselves.

******

One full night could not make up for days and days of insufficient rest. However reluctant he was to leave Philologos’s side, once the other man had dozed off Hilarion retired to his own bed. The guards had been ordered to watch the attendants’ food being prepared in the kitchens; they would not wake in drug-induced terror again.

But Hilarion had barely set his head upon the pillow when there was a tremendous crash that sent him jerking bolt upright. The noise sounded as though several delicate objects had been broken, very violently, all at once – and it had come from the king’s chambers.

He struggled free of his sheets as quickly as he could. Cleon was already pushing open the connecting door, asking, “Your Majesty, are you –” But the words died on his lips, his back in the threshold a frozen barrier. Philologos had wobbled his way to the group, and Hilarion wrapped a supportive arm around him as they waited for Cleon to speak.

“Oh, hurry up,” Lamion said impatiently, and shoved Cleon forward so that the other attendants could spill into the room.

 _HERETICS_ , a voice boomed. Tucked against Hilarion’s side, Philologos flinched. 

The glass from the broken window glimmered on the floor, reflecting the glow cast by the man standing over them. _FORSAKE YOUR FALSE KING, AND HIS FALSE GODS_ , he intoned, extending one arm to gesture at the bed where Attolis sat. The king looked torn between startlement and annoyance.

“Your Majesty!” There was a thump at the other door, and then a guard burst into the room – Exis, Hilarion thought, though he wasn’t exactly going to turn his head to check.

 _FORSAKE HIM_ , the god cried again, and took three rapid steps to the window, now bare of its glass, before vanishing through it.

Exis cursed at the sight of the drop before turning back to the door. “The Guard will seal the palace off, Your Majesty. We won’t let him escape. Just – please, _stay here_.” And he took off down the hallway with his sword drawn, shouting for his fellows.

“Stay here,” the king muttered, tugging on a pair of boots under his nightshirt. “Like that does me any good when he already _was_ here –”

“Your Majesty, the Guard –”

“I am tired of letting other people take blows on my behalf. If the Guard gets there first, they can have him,” the king said, and flung himself through the window as well.

The attendants gaped at each other. 

“You don’t think he was the one who –” 

“Does it matter?” Philologos demanded, though he was listing so badly that Hilarion had to hold much of his weight. “We have to go after him!”

“The tunnel,” Lamion said, and as one they shoved through the hidden panel beside the king’s bed and thundered down the winding staircase. 

The tunnel had been designed for a monarch to escape assassination or coup, and so there were only two exits – one within the palace grounds for the former scenario, and one outside of it for the latter. The attendants took the first, and as they emerged into the night air Hilarion twisted around, looking for the king.

“There!”

They skittered across the rooftops, two pale figures in the moonlight. Improbably, Attolis was gaining.

A clamor went up from behind them, and Hilarion knew that Exis had alerted the barracks. The intruder glanced back before climbing easily from his perch on the tiles to the wall that ringed the palace.

It was the kind of scramble that would, ordinarily, require two good hands.

The king jumped. For a single awful instant, Hilarion was sure that he would not make the distance – but the king was not done with impossible feats, and his feet gained stone. He went over the other side, nightshirt fluttering. Even as he did Hilarion was running again with Philologos stumbling alongside, this time for the massive gates.

They were open; the Guard had not yet barred the palace residents from leaving.

Hilarion could not do the impossible. He could not bring a man to his knees with his swordplay, nor with his tactical brilliance. None of them could.

But he could follow his king into the darkness, not knowing what lay in wait on the other side, and that was what he did.

******

Of course, they had no idea where they were going. As noblemen’s sons, they were versed in the basics of hunting, but finding one man in a city was a far cry from tracking a boar through the forest.

“We’re lost,” Dionis groaned ten minutes later.

“We’re not _lost_ , we’re just –”

“We’re definitely lost,” Lamion said. “Cleon, weren’t you courting a girl who lives around here?”

Cleon squinted at the unlit streets. “Maybe?”

Philologos swayed against him, and Hilarion pulled his arm a little tighter around the younger man. “We need help.”

“We can do this,” Pelles said stubbornly.

“If by ‘this’ you mean help me capture the intruder,” the king said, strolling around a corner as though he’d merely been out for a walk. More than one of the attendants yelped in surprise. “I’m afraid you’re too late. He’s unconscious in that alley back there.”

“Your Majesty! Are you unharmed?”

The king looked thoroughly unimpressed. “Yes. He wasn’t really a god, of course,” Attolis added condescendingly. “But he is rather too heavy for me to move on my own.”

Four of them took a limb each. Hilarion glared when Philologos tried to move away so that Hilarion was free to help. He wasn’t going to let Philologos smash his face open on the cobblestones out of the misguided belief that he’d made a full recovery.

“All things considered, I’m impressed you only had to drag him a little bit,” the king said as they approached the gates. “You should join sword practice in the mornings, since you’ve all apparently got the muscle for it.”

“Perhaps we’ll consider it,” Dionis huffed, “If we don’t collapse before we get him inside.”

But when they reached the gates they were closed, and guards were posted on the crenellated walls. One of them shouted, “Who goes there?”

“Really?” Sotis muttered, shaking his head to get the sweat out of his eyes.

“Well,” Attolis said. “Exis did say he would seal the palace off. We have the intruder,” he shouted up.  
  
“A likely story!”

“Come down and see for yourself.” 

“Your Majesty?” the other guard called, peering down at them. 

“Costis!” the king said, eyes lighting with recognition. “Let me in. It’s late, I’m tired, and my attendants smell like they’ve been hauling a man through half the city.”

There was a mad rush on the other side of the gates. “Your Majesty,” Costis said as the iron portcullis lifted, panting a little from taking the stairs at a run. “What have you been _doing_?”

“Stealing a god, of course,” the king said serenely. Costis gave up on any attempt at dignity and buried his head in his hands in wordless consternation.

Honestly, Hilarion was surprised it had taken so long.

******

The prisoner went to the dungeons. Hilarion didn’t often like to think of what went on below the palace, but just this once, he was willing to make an exception. For the man who had poisoned them and tried to kill Philologos, even the queen’s worst wouldn’t be undeserved.

He assumed, though, that as with any prisoner suspected of treason, the trial – such as it was – would be short, bloody, and private. Sejanus aside, the king did not usually grant audiences to traitors.

But the queen did not need to ask for an audience with her husband. She merely opened the door to the king’s study and walked in.

The king was pretending to read reports at his desk; Hilarion and the others were supposedly taking down notes, though he suspected that Cleon, at least, had long resorted to drawing pictures to amuse himself.

The attendants bowed, Philologos a hair slower than everyone else.

“We can go, Your Majesties,” Hilarion said, but the king shook his head. 

“I suspect this concerns you too. Stay.” 

The queen arched one eyebrow, but didn’t countermand him. “The man who broke in is called Hieracheus. He is an alchemist from the city, he has a wife and a grown son, and he says that he was not the one drugging your attendants’ food.”

Attolis leaned back in his desk chair. “Did you torture him?”

“For not drugging your attendants’ food?”

“You know what I meant.”

“No,” Attolia said. The king’s features were not suited to vulnerability, but he seemed, just for a moment, very fragile. Then she added, “He has thrown himself upon royal justice in the hope that we might not ruin his family over a murder he did not attempt.”

“Ah,” the king said.

“I am allowed to torture the people who try to kill you,” Attolia informed him. “You and I will have to live with disagreement on this matter.” 

The king scrunched up his nose. “But he didn’t try to kill me.”

“And you’ll notice he was not tortured. He also says he didn’t try to kill anyone else.”

“No,” the king said, “No, I don’t think he did.” They were quiet for a long moment, simply looking at each other. 

“‘I’ve never picked a fight in my life’?” the queen asked wryly.

“Well,” the king said, smiling bashfully at her.

The queen sighed, but her corner of her lip pulled upwards in the tiniest of answering smiles. “Oh,” she said. “Go on.”

“Hilarion,” the king said, not looking away from his wife. “I don’t think I was wrong after all.”

****** 

The high priest Theophanes was summoned.

“You asked for me, Your Majesty?”

“Yes,” the king said pleasantly. “You see, one of the most fervent worshippers at your temple paid me a visit last night.”

“Oh?”

“He’s an alchemist,” the king continued.

“I’m not sure I understand what Your Majesty is getting at,” Theophanes said.

“You know what an alchemist does, though.”

“My understanding is that alchemy purifies and transmutes raw materials into more refined elements,” the priest said blandly.

“Indeed. Like producing phosphorus from ore to make glowing paint,” the king said, “Or creating a drug with the mixed properties of lethium and quinalums.” 

The priest drew himself taller. “What is Your Majesty implying?”

“I am not implying anything, Theophanes. I am telling you that you purchased a quantity of this drug from Hieracheus so that you could dose my attendants’ food. You put red wax on the tapestry in the throne room, and copper in the well. I suspect,” he added casually, “That you did not mean to encourage Hieracheus to break into my apartments, but that’s the trouble with trying to stir up dissent. Sometimes you succeed.”

“If you have proof,” the priest said. “You would have brought me to the dungeons, not to your private chambers.”

“I don’t like the dungeons,” Attolis said simply. Theophanes’s expression went vindictively self-satisfied, but the king was relentless. “You think it’s a weakness? Let me tell you, then, why you should be grateful for my distaste. This is a warning. Admit to your crimes, and I’ll make sure you don’t spend too long there.”

“You mean you would have me executed.”

The king said, “But I wouldn’t have you tortured first.”

“You have no proof,” Theophanes told him. “And I have done nothing wrong. Unless you are going to arrest me, Your Majesty, I must excuse myself.” He left without bowing.

Nobody moved as they watched his measured departure, waiting for the king’s reaction.

Without turning, Attolis said, very calmly, “He is scared, and he is angry, and men who are scared and angry make foolish mistakes. He will too.”

Lined up with the other attendants along the wall, Hilarion couldn’t stop the furious noise that slipped out. Philologos caught his hand and squeezed it, and it was only that point of contact that kept Hilarion from flinging himself after Theophanes.

“Hilarion,” the king said. “Do you trust me?”

“Your Majesty –”

“I swore he would pay for hurting you all. Do you trust me to keep my word?”

Hilarion took a deep breath. He forced himself to let go of his bone-crushing grip on Philologos’s hand, and then he turned to face Attolis’s watchful gaze.

“Yes, My King.”

****** 

“Petitioners today, Your Majesty,” Lamion said, throwing open the heavy curtains in the king’s bedchamber.

The king’s groan made it clear exactly what his opinion on petitioners was.

In spite of that, they got him upright, dressed, and fed. “Do you think they’ve finally replaced that tapestry?” the king asked mid-bite.

Cleon said, “The new one was hung two days ago, Your Majesty.”                                                   

“I look forward to seeing it, then. Maybe it’ll be less eye-searing than the last.”

“I doubt it, Your Majesty,” Cleon replied, and the king grinned.

“And they say I’m the one without any faith.”  

Costis slipped into the retinue as they made their way to the throne room.  
  
“You seem to be getting along better with him.”

Hilarion shrugged. “Why did the Guard turn loyal overnight?”

“Because he keeps the queen safe,” Costis said immediately, and then grimaced. “No. It’s more than that.”

“Because he cares, even though he pretends so very hard not to,” Hilarion corrected. “He doesn’t care about being a king, but he cares about the queen, and about you, and about all of the silly, imperfect people he sees as his.”

“Including you,” Costis said.

“Including us.”

They reached the throne room, and the crowd stood to bow. The queen was already seated at the far end, but she nodded in regal acknowledgment.

“Ugh,” the king muttered under his breath, but he moved to join her – and then hesitated, his eyes focused on the gleaming mosaic floor. “Oh, gods _damn_.”

A spark flickered, racing along the tile. Before anyone could draw breath to shout, a line of flame roared up in its wake. The wash of heat that followed was enough to dry the air in Hilarion’s lungs. He recoiled, coughing.

The audience of courtiers was already primed to panic, but despite their screams the fire did not spread further, only burned in a steady barrier between the king and the rest of the room.

“My King –” Costis started, eyes wide.

“Call the high priest,” the king said.

Hilarion’s was not the only voice to rise in protest. “Your Majesty!”

“ _Call him_.” 

“I’m here, Your Majesty,” Theophanes said, stepping out of the crowd.

“Tell me,” the king said, preternaturally calm. “What does this mean?”

The priest spread his arms wide and pitched his voice to carry. “What do you think it means? The gods have barred you from the throne. They no longer believe you are fit to rule.”

“I prefer to see it as a test of faith,” the king said.

Then, ignoring Costis’s cry of horror, he walked forward into the flame.

He didn’t burn. As the fiery tendrils enveloped him, lapping at his clothes and skin, Attolis didn’t even close his eyes. Edged in incandescent gold, he walked through the fire like he was untouchable.

When he emerged, his boots were smudged with ash. The small reminder of his humanity only made him more terrifying.

The king took his throne and smiled at the court, as cold as the Eddisian winter.

“How?” Theophanes whispered, dumbfounded. “How could you survive that?”

“I have not yet offended the gods,” Attolis said. “Will you prove the same?”

“You are mad!”

“Am I?” the king asked, immovable. “Walk, Theophanes, if you dare.”

The priest glanced desperately back and forth between Attolis and the flames. “I will not.”

“Why not?” the queen said.

“It – it is a trick! No man can walk through Medean fire and live!”

If the king was ice then the queen was stone, her expression hard and her eyes like flint. Very quietly, she said, “How did you know this is Medean fire?”

Theophanes stared at her in mute horror.

“Guards,” the queen said. “Arrest this man for treason.”

The priest did not try to run. When he had been taken away, the king crossed his ankles and grinned. Suddenly he was a boy again, impertinent instead of awe-inspiring. “Shall we proceed?”

“We are not going to have court with a bonfire in the middle of the room,” Attolia said flatly.

“You don’t like it?” 

The queen merely tipped her head towards the courtiers, all of whom were pressed against the walls of the room in their fright.

“Oh, fine,” the king admitted after a moment. “It might be a bit much.”

****** 

After the display in the throne room, rumor and speculation were doing booming business. Word of the king’s feat had spread through the court and was well on its way to the entire kingdom when a guardsman went to bring the ex-high priest dinner – and had to report to his lieutenant particularly unexpected news. 

“He was found _what_ in his cell?”

“Burned,” Verix said. “They found him so badly burned he could not speak. The door was locked, and the prison guard didn't hear anything.”

“You don’t think the king –” Dionis asked.

“He gets squeamish over torture. He wouldn’t burn a man alive,” Hilarion interjected, though even to his own ears he sounded more confident than he felt.

“So then it was the queen,” Lamion said. "And he will live. Barely."

“You remember what the king said to Theophanes when they first met?” Philologos said thoughtfully. “The gods don’t tolerate disrespect. What’s more disrespectful than pretending to speak for them?” 

“You think it was Hephestia’s lightning?” 

“I think,” Philologos said, “Theophanes offended more than just the Eddisian gods.”

The gossip ground to a halt so the attendants could contemplate this new idea.

Hilarion didn’t know which god had kept Attolis safe in the fire or burnt Theophanes raw. He didn’t know if it was the work of the gods at all. But perhaps it didn’t really matter who had orchestrated Theophanes’ ultimate downfall.

Hilarion had faith in his king, and that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> ( **AN:** The ending has been tweaked very slightly to reflect the original recipient's letter. I should have done so earlier, and I apologize.)
> 
> A man is burned very badly, though no graphic description of his injuries is given.


End file.
